


The Stars Through Their Souls

by CrayonWrites, thor20



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 18th Century, Fluff and Angst, French Revolution, Grief/Mourning, Historical References, Immortality, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-22 00:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17652386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrayonWrites/pseuds/CrayonWrites, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thor20/pseuds/thor20
Summary: This is not the apocalypse; it is just a fun game to pass the time until it comes. An angel and a demon aren't quite sure that's what they would call it, but they're along for the ride whether they like it or not. The drums of revolution are calling them. People will die. People will be freed. Heaven and Hell pick no sides.





	1. Chapter 1

It was January 1789, and a lone angel and demon were sharing a little wine and little biscuits in a little garden in a little village by the outskirts of Paris, France. A revolution was coming. Crowley could taste it on the air, the tension that followed every public appearance of the King, the glares that tracked every move of the soldiers. It was bound to happen any month now. The people were furious, ready to rise up and strike at any moment -- like a snake waiting in the reeds. It was…

 

“Ineffable,” Aziraphale said with a satisfactory hum.

 

Crowley drummed his fingers on his glass, looking over his dark glasses at Aziraphale. “Don’t you go on about that ineffable nonsense again,” he said.

 

“Oh, but it  _ is _ .”

 

“Not everything is ineffable, angel.”

 

Aziraphale dropped the argument, knowing in his heart that he was right, of course. It was ineffable, of  _ course _ , everything was; He had planned it that way.

 

“Anyways, it doesn’t matter if it’s ineffable,” Crowley said as he swirled the last swig of his wine in his glass. He was considering filling it back up. “It’s going to happen soon. Can’t you feel it?”

 

“No,” Aziraphale said truthfully.

 

Angels can feel love in the air. They can feel joy, upcoming miraculous events, celebrations to come. Revolt, however, was not something Aziraphale could feel. Which was, perhaps, why he’d done nothing during his time in France to make himself look like one of the common folk as Crowley had that day.*(1)

 

_ *(1) Crowley was wearing a most plain black overcoat, blending in almost completely with the black undershirt. His breaches were gray, and hung down over his knees, over the long socks. He wore flat shoes, as opposed to Aziraphale’s buckled heels. He would be wearing sunglasses, were they invented yet. In 1929, when the first sunglasses make their appearance in stores, Crowley will buy 3 pairs out of the belief that they are the pinnacle of fashion. For now, he simply wore eyeglasses that he had manipulated darker to hide his eyes. _

 

They hadn’t picked sides, not in the traditional way. Aziraphale was with the angels, of course, with Heaven, as always. But Heaven itself had not picked a side. Aziraphale had heard of angels who had already aligned themselves with the rebellion, and of angels who had fit right in with the French militia. Hell too, was split. Demons fell on both sides, as if a coin had been flipped and had opened up in the air, landing with both head and tails grinning proudly up at God.

 

Aziraphale figured he’d simply get roped onto whatever side got a hold of him first, most likely the aristocrats. Aziraphale had favored the richer life, and he probably would not be welcome by the lower class. He’d sooner Redeem Crowley than be accepted among the common folk. He was fat, he was proper, he loved the fashionable clothes and exquisite foods. He was not one of them.

 

“When do you suppose it’ll happen?” The angel said, speaking up as Crowley finally decided to pour himself more wine, after a seemingly torturous mental debate.

 

“I’d give it a couple months.”

 

“Only months?”

 

“It’s  _ everywhere _ , angel. The people are restless. The wind is sharp. I can taste it.”

 

Aziraphale dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief, careful to avoid smudging the rouge color on his lips. He rather fancied the fashion of this period. The elegant hats, the feathered accessories, the glamorous coats, the heels, the makeup; it was all splendid to him. Of course, he never indulged himself  _ too _ much.*(2)

 

_ *(2) He had, of course, indulged himself just enough. Aziraphale had adorned himself with a pale blue overcoat, enlain with golden trim that shimmered as he moved in the light. A dark, wedge-shaped hat sat atop his golden curls, tied loosely back with a blue ribbon. He had taken off his white gloves for their meal, but they laid neatly on his lap. _

 

“I’ve never tasted the wind,” Aziraphale said with a smile.

 

Crowley groaned. “No, no, it’s… a metaphor, angel. Not literal.”

 

The angel nodded with a soft laugh. “Yes, yes,” he sang.

 

The idea, though, that they had mere months left… it frightened Aziraphale. The angel wasn’t a fan of war, not at all. Heaven talked in wonderful sing-song voices when they fantasized about the apocalypse, about the Great War to come. This wasn’t it, of course, although Famine and Pestilence had already made themselves more acquainted with the country. And Death. Death was there. He always was.

 

But this revolution, it was just a bit of entertainment for the powers above and below. Just a window for the ones who wanted to to get out and stretch their wings and practice their flaming sword skills, using standard militia issue swords, of course. Aziraphale wished he could be left out of this whole thing altogether. He didn’t want to fight or die, he just wanted to drink wine, eat biscuits, and perhaps get a little cottage in a little countryside with a beautiful view by the beach. Put this whole “war” business far behind him.

 

He pushed his plate aside, finished the last sip in his wine glass, and then pulled his gloves back on.

 

“You look so pompous, dressed like that,” Crowley said.*(3)

 

_ *(3) He took a moment to be thankful for his shades, allowing him to take in the look of the angel without giving away his glances. _

 

A smile played across Aziraphale’s lips, and he shrugged with a hum. “I rather like it.”

 

Aziraphale stood and pushed in his chair as Crowley disappointedly stared down the neck of the empty wine bottle. He chuckled a bit as the demon stood up with a huff. Aziraphale raised his hand to his side, gesturing to the path through the garden.

 

“Care for a walk?”

 

Crowley considered for a moment. He could say no, of course. They didn’t  _ need _ to spend time together, just because of the Arrangement. Unfortunately, it sounded a great deal more interesting to stop and smell the roses than to go back to Paris and smell the building revolution. 

 

“Why not?” he replied, making a grand and ridiculous bow.

 

Aziraphale made a quick nod to the table, and the plates, bottles, glasses, crumbs; all disappeared. The table was spotless.

 

“Oh Lord, clean this table,” Crowley said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

 

Aziraphale shook his head. “I wasn’t simply going to  _ leave _ it all there. Who would I be?”

 

“Far less of a prick.”

 

Aziraphale blinked, shock evident in the lines of his face. “Rude,” he said, maintaining his composure. He turned on his heel, his coattails billowing behind him gently, and began to stride along the path. Crowley, suddenly feeling quite lonely although only feet away from the angel, caught up to him quickly.

 

The two fell in step beside each other as they walked through the flowers. Here, outside of the slums of the city, one could almost forget that Heaven and Hell were about to get a bit of free entertainment. Crowley noticed a particular flower beginning to wilt, and he shot it a glare. He smiled triumphantly to himself when the stem straightened and the petals pulsed with life.

 

“It’ll be a shame,” Aziraphale said, holding his hands clasped together behind his back. “The country is so  _ beautiful _ when it’s not in a state of crisis.”

 

“Well, not the whole country,” Crowley said with disinterest. “Just Paris.”

 

Aziraphale nodded. “Right. Just Paris.”

 

“Mostly Paris.”

 

“Right. Mostly Paris.”

 

They fell silent. The silence wrapped around the space where words could be, filling it like the plush down from the underside of wings. It was not suffocating, nor was it empty. It was soft, something to fall back on at the end of a tiring day. A lone bird chirped in the distance, happily whistling its merry tune through the silky silent air.. Soon it’s friends would arrive, it would just be mere months.

 

Aziraphale looked curiously at the garden, at the blooming flowers, the lush greenery — in  _ January _ . Aziraphale smoothed his collar as the cold bit at his neck and stopped walking. He kneeled by a rose bush, gently holding a blossom with two gloved fingers. The deep red flushed across the petals, a rouge deeper than the color of Aziraphale’s lips, the petals velvet and smooth. Wine pouring over cloth.

 

“Roses in winter?” he mused vaguely in the direction of Crowley, who had stopped to look at him.

 

The serpent smiled. “You didn’t think this was the first time I’d visited this garden, did you?”

 

“Ah, well that explains. These poor things must be terrified.”*(4)

 

_ *(4) Crowley didn’t need to have heard the radio story about speaking to his plants, which he would indeed hear in the far future, to know about terrifying them. He sent them mean glances, pointedly pruned out withering flowers, the like. _

 

“Can’t possibly be _ that _ scared, now that you’re here.”

 

Aziraphale let a soft smile tug at his lips as Crowley seemed to realize what he’d said and averted his gaze.

 

Aziraphale ran his thumb over a leaf on the rose’s stem, ghosting over the ridges and veins that ran down it like rivers. The veins ran pinnately down, light against dark green, snaking out to the ridged edges. Roses were one of Aziraphale’s favorite flowers*(5) to see at any time of year, and here in the winter, they burst against the landscape like jewels.

 

_ *(5) Of course, he loved all flowers. He loved all of God’s creations. But roses, he tended to favor. The abundance of which, here in such a desolate time, made Aziraphale wonder if Crowley knew this. _

 

“Roses are so gorgeous, aren’t they?” Aziraphale said absentmindedly, not really looking for a response.

 

“They’re certainly wonders of the world,” Crowley said, kneeling too, now, to observe the roses. “The colors can be so varied, if you look.”

 

“Red is my favorite,” the angel said with a sigh. “The color of heart, of love.”

 

Crowley felt something spark in his chest, and tamped it down with a full bucket of water and a digging of his heel.  _ It is lovely _ , he felt on the tip of his tongue.

 

“The thorns are ingenious,” he said instead. “Self-protection. They  _ know  _ they’re beautiful.”

 

“Isn’t it work to keep these going so strong in such weather?”

 

The demon shrugged. “Not more work than convincing old Robespierre to rally more people.”

 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and smiled. Crowley watched dimples pop into his rosy cheeks. Watched the sun peak out behind a cloud, dancing across the roses and highlighting the golden ringlets in Aziraphale’s hair. Watched the light twinkle in the angel’s blue eyes, his eyelashes batting the cold, grey atmosphere away from his face.

 

Crowley cleared his throat and stood.

 

“Come on, angel. There are some peonies over this way that I am absolutely proud of,” he dropped his voice. “But don’t you let them hear that.”

 

“Pride is a sin, my dear,” Aziraphale said with a smile that sang.

 

“Well of course, why do you think I Fell?”

 

The two shared a laugh and knelt to admire the peonies. At the sight of Crowley, their stems stiffened, their leaves perked, and their petals spread to showcase their colors.

 

“You have a way with them, my boy,” Aziraphale said, shooting him a glance. “Though I’m afraid I don’t quite approve of your terrorizing methods.”

 

“It works the best,” Crowley hissed with a smile.

 

_ He’s avoiding something,  _ Aziraphale knew,  _ In Paris _ . He watched the demon glance around the garden, mindlessly fiddle with a couple leaves, and flick a speck of dirt off a peony bud.

 

“Why don’t you want to head back into Paris?”

 

Crowley looked up at him. “ _ You _ asked me on this walk, Aziraphale.”

 

The angel smiled, softly. “Yes, but you had every opportunity to refuse.”

 

“‘Sssuppose I just don’t want to go back to all those humans quite yet,” Crowley said, standing straight and sending a speck of dirt off of his shoe with one look. “Hate the blessed grime everywhere.”

 

Aziraphale hummed. Carefully, he reached forward and picked a peony from its stem with a satisfying  _ snap. _ He stood too now, and twirled the flower between his fingers. Then, he reached forward and gingerly held the bloom up to Crowley’s lapel. He smiled as a small miracle allowed a pin to appear and hold the flower in place.

 

“A little reminder then,” he said sweetly. “Of the cleaner world outside, hmm?”

 

Crowley looked taken aback. His shaded glasses slid down his nose a bit, just enough for Aziraphale to see Crowley’s wide, yellow snake eyes. Startled, full of confusion, a glint of something else Aziraphale couldn’t identify. With a huff, Crowley pushed his glasses up on his face.

 

“Nice,” he said faintly. “Walk with me to Paris?”

 

Aziraphale cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “You think that’d be wise? A seemingly commoner walking alongside a seemingly upper crust?”

 

Crowley made a  _ hm,  _ as if he’d not considered that. He made another, longer  _ hm _ when he considered walking in a commoner and having to go speak at some meeting about the values of their little rebellious “army”. Then, with a straightening of his back and a snap of his fingers, Crowley was wearing something new. There were so special effects, no flourishes -- just a snap, and there it was.

 

His peasant’s clothing had been completely remodeled, and now he wore a suit that would have him fitting right among King Louis. Silver buttons trailed down the coat. He wore heels now, putting him at a height even taller than normal. He looked like a proper, snobby gentleman. Atop his head sat a dark hat, and the adornments on that hat were what Aziraphale’s attention was currently focused on. A large plume of white feathers, but next to them, the peony Aziraphale had put on Crowley’s coat.

 

Crowley gave a little twirl in place. “Hmm? Well?” He said inquisitively, holding his arms out to his sides as if conducting an opera, a smirk upon his devilish face.

 

Aziraphale smiled brightly*(6) and applauded the demon. “Wonderful! The details are very nice.”

 

_ *(6) Crowley tamped down that spark a second time, for good measure. _

 

“Now,” Crowley said, holding out an arm, which Aziraphale quickly linked with his*(7). “Let’s get on to Paris, shall we?”

 

_ *(7) And a third time, good riddance. _

 

Two angels, linked in arms, grinning as if they had just told the funniest joke simply by linking their arms as so, walked out of the garden. A Fallen angel, a demon, and his companion; who was, to be said, not much better off than the demon. The demon mused to the angel, about the first time they’d met, in a garden, and the angel mused back that here there was no apple, not that he would have eaten it anyway. The sun peeked through the clouds and stayed there, and the bird in the distance finished its song. 


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley and Aziraphale had gone a couple months since January not quite speaking. The two had had manners of their own to attend to and simply hadn’t had the chance to meet up. Spring had come and gone, and autumn was only a few months away. King Louis had called and convened the Estates General in the past months, and Crowley had had his share of fun worming temptations into the minds of the politicians there.

  
When the National Assembly took the Tennis Court Oath, Crowley had been there too. Ghosts of rebellion whispered on the wind were not, contrary to what he would later claim to his superiors, in any way a cause of his actions on that day. He had simply been there because he had begun to be favored by a few of the showrunners of the third party. He was a particular favorite of Robespierre, but he wasn’t really  _ glad  _ to be. Robespierre had ideas that left Crowley feeling as if he wasn’t taking his job as “demon” seriously. 

 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had just lain low for those months. He’d spruced up his garden*(8), made and consumed a record-breaking amount of tea, and felt incredibly lonely without the company of his serpentine friend.

 

_ *(8) At least, as well as he could. Which was not very well at all. Crowley always had a knack for it. When he wasn’t trying, Aziraphale could simply sit and flowers would bloom in his wake. But when he actually tried to make something grow, he often magnificently failed. _

 

When Aziraphale received a note from a small urchin boy whilst perusing the market, he’d been quite excited at the sight of the black crow on the seal.  _ How fitting, _ Aziraphale mused to himself. He’d paid the boy handsomely and torn open the seal with little hesitation.

 

“Your place? -C,” the note read.

 

He’d almost dropped the paper as his heart swelled up. “Finally,” he breathed. He’d turned on his heel and strode down the street, his heels clicking on the cobblestone, his joy blocking out the looks of scorn and anger directed his way from the poorer folks of the marketplace.

 

Crowley had already been there, in his garden, nursing a cup of tea and waiting expectantly with a familiar smile. Aziraphale tried not to show just how happy he was to see the demon, and had thanked him graciously for preparing the tea, and then scolded him for not showing up sooner. And so there the two of them sat, enjoying their own drinks and enjoying the buzz of summer as if a war was not slinking lazily across the horizon.

 

“They’re planning something big,” Crowley said over the rim of his teacup. “Two days. The Bastille.”

 

Aziraphale swallowed his sip of tea much faster than he’d intended, and the hot liquid stung his throat. “ _ The Bastille? _ ” he sputtered.

 

Crowley swirled his drink and nodded. He was beginning to see the remains of the leaves at the bottom, floating just slightly in the cup. “Loads of ammunition and artillery, that place.”

 

“I’m aware,” Aziraphale said, drumming his fingers rapidly on the sides of the porcelain. He crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, and then decided to cross them again the other way. The little bench in his home garden wasn’t quite fit for a man who’d gone incredibly fidgety with a silent terror and his demon companion, trying to share a cup of tea and the month’s news.

 

It was July 12th, 1789, and it was a quite beautiful summer in the finer parts of Paris. The angel’s garden was still blooming quite nicely, roses and daffodils and lilies. A light breeze swept through the air, shifting the grass in waves of green hues that danced in the light, hues brighter than any human’s eyes could ever hope to see.

 

“Why now?”

 

“Necker. Louis kicked the poor bastard out.” Crowley glowered at the empty teacup in his hand, considering for a moment getting more tea, and then deciding against it and setting the cup down on a small table next to the bench. He leaned back on the bench, crossing one leg over the other and setting his arms on the back of the bench. “He was a favorite of the third class. Now he’s out. They’re angry and scared.”

 

Aziraphale frowned. “Louis. Of course. Oh, I do so dislike that man. You really needn’t tempt him so much, dear.”

 

Crowley shrugged. “Not really me, at this point. I just whispered a bit at first. This is all  _ his  _ ideas.”

 

“He isn’t on Heaven’s list, that’s for sure.”

 

“Well, I’d hope not. You’d have me wondering how I Fell.”

 

His statement made Aziraphale chuckle and roll his eyes. He took a sip of his tea again, humming.

 

“I’ll have to try tea  _ without _ sugar next time,” he said vaguely.

 

“More sugar the better, I say,” Crowley grinned. “But then again, I’ve always had a sweet tooth.”

 

The demon smiled at Aziraphale, not quite knowing why. It simply pushed forth from him, with no real control. The angel smiled back, and Crowley felt his heart thud.  _ Ugh, not good, _ he thought sourly.  _ Cut that out. _

 

Aziraphale found his eyes drifting to Crowley’s hat, and to the peony blossom that still sat up there, bold and proud and lovely. Still alive, without any reason to be. A miracle, of course*(9). Why Crowley kept it up there was a mystery to the angel. Perhaps he simply thought it tied his outfit together nicely. Even in the outfits that the demon chose in order to blend in with the poorer civilians, the bloom stood out on the lapel of his coat.

 

_ *(9) He hadn’t meant to miracle it at the time, but he supposed he must have without thinking. After all, why would Crowley put in the effort to keep it alive? _

 

“People are going to get hurt,” Aziraphale said softly, after a while of silence. Not the sweet silence, not the comfortable down. A frozen, paralyzing silence. When the crickets cease their singing in the middle of a seemingly normal evening, when the owls no longer hoot, and the frogs no longer sing into the night, an uneasiness falls like a blanket over the land. That blanket had fallen over Aziraphale’s little patch of garden the moment Crowley spoke of the Bastille. 

 

The demon turned his head to gaze sidelong at the man-shaped being sitting beside him. The sunlight illuminated the worry on Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley felt a pang of guilt for just a moment. It should not be said that the two were ever on opposite sides, not truly. No, they were on  _ their _ side, and it was really quite comfortable that way. 

 

“Vive la révolution,” Crowley murmured, his breath slithering through the silence. 

 

“Ineffable,” Aziraphale whispered, sipping the last dregs of his tea.

 

The breeze sent the curls in Aziraphale’s hair tumbling, rolling like currents in a stream. The sun outlined him with a crown of holy light. The look of pure compassion and worry on his face made him look soft but fiercely protective. Here, at this moment, he truly looked like an angel. He looked like a painting. Were Crowley any good at painting, he might have painted him indeed*(10). But now was not the place, nor the time, for such things.

 

_ *(10) Angel In Sunny Paris (1789). _

 

If Crowley weren’t a demon, and if Aziraphale weren’t an angel, and if this was not France in the midst of a spurring revolution, he might have said something more. Might have said something to comfort the angel. Might have taken his hand and held tight like a man holding the ropes of a sail that threatened to whip away in a storm. 

 

But Crowley was a demon, and Aziraphale was an angel, and this was France in the midst of a spurring revolution. So Crowley said nothing.

 

“Won’t you do something about it?” Crowley asked after a while of studying the angel in silence.

 

“Me?”

 

“Of course. You know, angel? Fighting demon? Thwarting and whatnot.”

 

Aziraphale stared for a moment at Crowley. Then, he stared for a moment at the lush green grass beneath his feet.

 

“I don’t know,” he finally said softly. “The people… they  _ deserve _ freedom, don’t you think?”

 

A leaf from a nearby tree fluttered towards the pair, and Aziraphale caught it in his hand. He ran his finger along the edge, along the veins, and along the ridges. Complex, beautiful, simple, all at once. He released his hold on the leaf and let the wind carry it gently off toward the horizon.

 

“How on Earth could He expect me to undermine them?” he murmured.

 

“I never thought of it that way,” Crowley said, his voice unusually quiet. “Just thought, well, surely there’ll be a lot of fighting and sinning going on there.”

 

Aziraphale looked at him, a smile beginning to form at the corners of his mouth. “Well that’s just it, isn’t it?”

 

“Isn’t it what?”

 

“It’s not black or white. Good or evil.” Aziraphale stood with a start and began to pace in his little patch of garden. “If they don’t win, they remain slaves, they remain tortured, and they remain oppressed.” He turned to Crowley with a start, halting his pacing. “But if they  _ win _ , there’ll be a whole lot of bloody fighting going on! Killing and murdering -- all ungodly. There is no real winning here!”

 

“What are you getting at? What’s this got to do with what side you’ll be taking?”

 

The smile vanished from Aziraphale’s face. He looked down at his feet. Back up at Crowley. Glanced around at the garden, as if looking for the train of thought he’d just lost. At last, he let his legs give out and sat down on the sun-warmed grass. The angel crossed his legs in front of him and propped his chin up on his hands.

 

“I’ve no idea.”

 

Crowley chuckled. He couldn’t help it. Aziraphale and his tangents*(11). However, Crowley couldn’t shake the feeling that Aziraphale was onto something, wasn’t he? There  _ was _ no perfectly divine outcome to this.

 

_ *(11) Aziraphale tended to go off on long tangents of nonsense words often. Crowley had tried and failed to get him to tone it down. _

 

“Will you be going with them?” Aziraphale asked, perking up a bit to look at Crowley still seated on the bench.

 

Crowley sighed. “Oh, probably.”

 

The angel nodded. “Well, be careful, my dear.” There was a tint of fear in the edge of his voice like ink creeping and spreading across paper when met by a drop of water.

 

“Always am.”

 

“Except for when you’re not.”

 

“Oh, like you care.”

 

Aziraphale straightened his back, his face suddenly becoming very serious. Blue eyes stared into dark glass with a concerned intensity that made Crowley feel certain it could melt the glasses right off his face. 

 

“What makes you think I don’t?”

 

Silence filled the atmosphere. A pair of birds flew overhead, chirping their tune with vigor. The sun laid down and illuminated their dark wings with shimmering blues and greens. The lazy clouds gave no indication of turmoil. 

 

A lump had formed in Crowley’s throat, and he swallowed slowly. The breeze remained steady, but Crowley felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. He fought to find something to say.

 

“I ah… I’m sorry, angel. I was only joking.”

 

Aziraphale’s stare softened. “I  _ do  _ care about you, you know.”

 

Crowley nodded, not really thinking. He wasn’t sure if he really knew. Wasn’t sure if he even really knew what care  _ felt  _ like. 

 

* * *

 

The sunny weather of two days previous could be all but forgotten in the horrid smoke of the bonfires. It clustered above the people, like hanging storm clouds, ominous and heavy. Aziraphale sat atop a building nearby, carefully watching the commotion below. The air was dreadfully thick, and Aziraphale had stopped breathing an hour ago.

 

The crowd of people moved and throbbed like a pulsing heart. They shouted, beat drums, marched in triumphant glory. They held guns above their heads, shaking them to the heavens.  _ Look at us, God _ they said.  _ Look how we have risen. _

 

Aziraphale watched in silent horror as a man below thrust his arm into the air. In his hand, a wooden spike. Perched atop that spike, the head of Bernard-René de Launay, the former governor of the Bastille. Aziraphale felt nausea rise in his throat, and he averted his gaze.

 

Turning back to the roof, his eyes widened as he spotted Crowley, blood splattered on the front of his shirt. The peony, still pinned there, was miraculously unharmed and unstained. He walked forward slowly, flat black shoes thudding quietly on the stone roof as he stepped. There were holes in his coat, where bullets had shot and missed narrowly.

 

“You’re alive,” Aziraphale said, releasing a breath. He had forgotten he’d stopped breathing on an inhale.

 

“Told you I’d be careful, angel.”

 

Aziraphale’s face softened, a smile working its way slowly, sweetly, like molasses, across his face. With one hand he patted the roof next to him, motioning for Crowley to sit beside him. The demon obliged.

 

“Quite horrible,” Aziraphale murmured, his temporary relief gone as his attention turned back to the city. Grief plastered itself across the angel’s face. In the ashen atmosphere, his golden ringlets looked dirty and pale. His face looked gray, devoid of its usual rosy appearance. His blue eyes were stormy. The sun was hidden behind clouds of thick smoke, so now Aziraphale’s face looked devoid of the golden hum that he’d had in the garden. The honey-sweet glow had faded*(12).

 

_ *(12) Fallen Angel (1789). _

 

Crowley nodded with a hum. He traced his fingers over the bullet holes in his jacket, recalling the struggle to work a  _ miracle  _ to keep them from hitting. He’d had to. He couldn’t let the angel down.

 

“Did you encourage that?”

 

Crowley snapped his attention back to the present. “Encourage what?”

 

Aziraphale grimaced as he gestured to the streets below. “The head.”

 

Crowley peered over the edge. His face paled. “Oh, wow. No. Wasn’t me.”

 

A look of pain washed over Aziraphale’s ashen face. “Horrific, that humans could do such a thing. Could  _ think  _ to do such a thing.”

 

“Well, there were other demons down there,” Crowley said, putting a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and guiding him to stop looking over the edge. “Another demon could have given them the idea.”

 

Aziraphale’s eyes slid from the roof edge to meet Crowley’s gaze. Numb, he nodded. “You’re probably right,” he whispered, his voice a ghost of himself.

 

The two sat for a while. Ashes carried through the air, landing on their faces, their clothes, in their hair. Crowley reached over and brushed ash off of Aziraphale’s cheek with his thumb. Were there not an enormous mass of people assembled so close, they might have risked releasing their winged, letting the wind ruffle through their feathers like a lone dancer trying to squeeze through a busy ballroom.

 

“God, when did man lose his reason?” Aziraphale murmured with shaking breath, not to Crowley, simply to the sky, turning his gaze up to the glare of the sun through the clouds of smoke. “Save us, my  _ God _ , if you’re there.”

 

Aziraphale looked like he might cry, but no tears came. He simply sat there, hugging his knees to his chest. 

 

“I didn’t know it’d get this bad,” Crowley said at last. “They were talking a lot, as if they were negotiating. Some other demons were getting fed up. They climbed the wall and lowered the drawbridge.”

 

Aziraphale hummed, his long lashes batting ash away from his eyes. He had taken off his hat and was now running his fingers along the decorative feathers that plumed out of it. They looked like more of a mess than they had before he’d attempted to smooth them out. 

 

Crowley held his hand towards the hat, and Aziraphale blinked at him quietly before handing him the hat. Crowley pulled his legs in front of him, crossed, and set the hat in his lap. He began to run his fingers along the feathers in a deliberate motion, rather than just  _ up _ . They were fixed in no time, looking tidy and straight.

 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale murmured numbly, taking the hat back.

 

“No problem,” Crowley said with a little smile, leaning back on the heels of his hands. “I preen more often than you, anyhow. I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t know  _ how. _ ”

 

Aziraphale snorted*(13). Crowley looked at him, unable to keep the silly grin off his face. Aziraphale rubbed his face on his sleeve, smudging the ash on his face. He stared at Crowley’s face as the demon struggled to bite back a laugh.

 

_ *(13) Making Aziraphale laugh, even a little bit, after an emotionally exhausting event like this, was Crowley’s specialty. _

 

“I’ve just made it worse, haven’t I?” he said, his grin perking up slowly.

 

“Oh, so much worse.”

 

“And my  _ sleeve  _ is ruined,” Aziraphale pouted.

 

However, as the angel turned to look at Crowley again, he couldn’t stop the smile that plastered itself across his plump cheeks, the rosy color returning with lively vigor. He began to laugh, quiet at first. His heart was at war. It was so stupid, and silly, having a face covered in ash. But he couldn’t see how he could be laughing at a time like this. How miserable they were, the two of them.

 

Crowley joined in. His laugh like a hissing balloon at first. However, it quickly turned to low chuckles, from the shallows of his aching lungs, raspy and soft.

 

The two of them dissolved into laughter. Soon it turned loud, heavy, full of strained joy. Aziraphale toppled over, his head falling into Crowley’s lap. Crowley held his chest as the laughs wrecked his body, exhausted from the fighting. Their laughs were carried up past the smoke, up to the heavens, up to a God who watched the cards in His solitaire game line up quite nicely for a moment.

 

Crowley wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. Aziraphale’s breathing finally calmed after the fit of laughing. The two of them fell silent. The smoke was beginning to clear, ever slowly. The fires below had been put out. A beam of sunlight peeked through the smog, sending a beam across Aziraphale’s eyes. Finding its final resting place on the peony on Crowley’s coat. 

 

They could hear something, now. From below. Not too loud, not like the shouting and bellowing from earlier. It was smaller, rising, rising, like a bird learning to fly. A chant, full of hope. Full of inspiration. Bright. Determined. Free.

 

“ _ Liberté, égalité, fraternité _ !”

 

The triumphant sound rang up and down the alleys, through the streets of Paris, rising up on golden wings. A people’s song of freedom. A wish for a new life. A better life, where the people may live freely, no longer trapped in the hell of poverty.

 

Aziraphale felt his heart rise with the chant. Through it all, here the humans were, full of  _ hope.  _ It made him smile. The corners of his eyes crinkled up with his trembling smile. Crowley glanced down at the angel, feeling a flutter in his chest at the sight of Aziraphale’s soft, genuine smile.

 

“Ineffable,” Aziraphale breathed.

 

“Vive la révolution,” Crowley said softly, tangling his long fingers in the ringlets of Aziraphale’s hair.


	3. Chapter 3

Rain pounded down onto the streets of Paris. The cobblestone streets were slick. A lone angel strode as carefully down the paths as he could, reading the street signs carefully. He regarded each little business with fondness. He’d been considering opening his own little book shop for a while, and seeing all these little businesses with their quaint little storefronts was making him rather inspired. 

 

Finally, Aziraphale’s eyes fell upon the not-so-quaint storefront of the business that Crowley’s directions had spoken of. The shop sign looked crudely painted and about a decade old. The patch of soil in the front was derelict and empty.

 

“This must be the place,” he murmured, his voice lost in the smash of rain against stone. He looked around a bit, wondering for a moment how on earth this little shop could look so much worse than the surrounding buildings. It could have been hit by a riot, he supposed, but that wouldn’t explain the rather nice condition of the other businesses.

 

The bell above the door jingled quietly, drowned out by the thundering rain. Aziraphale slipped through the door into the oil lamp filled room. A young boy, hardly 10, rushed up to him, his feet slipping a bit on the wet stone floor. A flash of lightning illuminated the boy’s face through the window, and Aziraphale saw a scar running from his hairline to his cheek.

 

“Let me take your coat, sir,” he said, his voice tired.

 

Aziraphale smiled gently. He held a hand up. “No no,” he said in perfect French, as he had been practicing for a couple decades. “I’m fine, thank you.”

 

The boy looked taken aback. He wasn’t sure how to react. He seemed as though he’d never had a man turn down such an offer before.

 

“Ezekiel!” The innkeeper yelled as he entered the room from the back. “Are you bothering our customer?”

 

The boy, Ezekiel, Aziraphale gathered, shook as he looked at the innkeeper. “N-no, no, I was just offering to take his coat-”

 

The innkeeper brought a hand up and in a movement swifter than Aziraphale could keep track of, he slapped the boy across the face. Ezekiel let out a small cry of pain, cowering away from the man.

 

“Go ready a room for him,” the innkeeper spat.

 

Aziraphale watched the boy scurry out of the room and up the stairs, concern crawling onto his face. In an instant, the innkeeper had straightened his posture and his coat and turned to Aziraphale with a broad, yellowed grin.

 

“Welcome! You’ll be needing a room, I assume. Shelter from the rain?”

 

Aziraphale felt a fire creeping up his veins. He understood then why Crowley had advised him to look into this inn. This man seemed to be exactly the kind of man Aziraphale  _ despised.  _ The cozy appearance of the main room had quickly turned cold, dark, and cramped in Aziraphale's mind. Aziraphale felt a fury building deep within his chest, and he struggled to compose himself. He plastered a fake smile over his rosy cheeks.

 

“Of course! Just until the rain passes. How much for a night’s stay?”

 

They exchanged a few short words, Aziraphale handed the man his coins, and he was instructed up the stairs to the hallway that lead to the rooms.

 

Aziraphale walked up to his temporary room, contemplating the severe emptiness of his pockets. It was not as if he couldn’t simply conjure up more money if he chose to, but that man did not  _ need _ to rob him dry. Forget his greed, he did not need to  _ smack _ that poor boy. He need not have laid a single hair on him.

 

Ezekiel was standing at the door to the room when Aziraphale approached. He trembled and opened the door, watching for the innkeeper in the corner of his eye. Aziraphale glanced at the boy and stopped before entering the room. He dug into his coat, and produced a handful of sparkling coins. He took Ezekiel’s small hand and pressed the money into his palm.

 

“You deserve much better than here, my boy,” he said softly.

 

He watched with a gentle satisfaction as the boy’s eyes widened at the sight of the money he was now holding.

 

“S-sir,” he stammered, looking up at Aziraphale with wonder and confusion. “I- I can’t take this. It’s- it’s yours, sir.”

 

The angel smiled, and the hallway seemed to warm. He put up a hand to quiet Ezekiel. “Hush. It’s the least I can do.”

 

He turned to the room, about to head inside, and then stopped. He turned back to the child, a smile growing on his face*(14).

 

_ *(14) It should be said that angels, throughout history, were not simply known for having a positive demeanor. Angels were terrifying in a way that their power was strong and evident, the glory of God shining through them. Aziraphale had that effect, too, when his heart spurred him forward with a divine might to do good unto others.  _

 

“After tonight,” he said, his voice gentle. A hint of mischievous nature twinkled at the edge of his tone. “You’ll never need to worry about that horrid innkeeper again, my boy. I assure you, he won’t be keeping this job for long.”

 

Ezekiel nodded numbly, clutching the coins to his chest. “God bless you, sir,” he said, his voice shaking.

 

“Afraid I’ve already got that one covered. But unto you as well, Ezekiel. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

 

The boy scurried down the hall, and Aziraphale watched him go with the affection of autumn trees waving goodbye to the leaves. He hummed as he closed the door, and took a long look around the room he now stood in.

 

If there was a single word to wrap up this room into a little bundle, it would be a word only spoken by angels that could burn the ears of humans. As it stood, however, there was no word to describe it.

 

Floorboards creaked under the bed, splintering in places that made it seem deathly unsafe to lay one’s whole body on the mattress. The mattress, if you could even  _ call  _ it that, was a mess within itself. It was thin as paper, covered in moth bitten holes and stains that looked suspiciously like blood. Not to mention the big, wet puddle in the middle from the  _ drip drip dripping  _ of the leak in the roof above. A single window sat on one wall, but it might as well have been brick. The glass had long gone moldy and brown, and the wood around the sill was rotting away after so many years of weather*(15) and weather*(16). The floorboard curved and wobbled and groaned under Aziraphale’s feet, and he wondered how in the great heavens he had allowed himself to spend so much money for  _ this _ .

 

_ *(15) As in use. _

_ *(16) As in rain. _

 

“Well! What a room,” the angle huffed. 

 

Aziraphale hung his rain-soaked coat on the rack in the corner and mused to himself how much more of a stick than a rack it was.

 

He knew it was a time of economic crisis, of course, but with the money the innkeeper was making, one would have thought the inn itself would be in better condition than this. Aziraphale walked hesitantly over to the bed, feeling the wood resist holding him up. It might have been a miracle he didn’t fall through. He sat on the bed, wincing at how dreadfully horrible it felt. 

 

_ This place could at least use a garden, _ he thought with a hum.  _ No wonder Crowley thought this place had satanic qualities. _

 

The thought of Crowley, dressed in something prim and proper, or perhaps his more common clothing, seeing this gardenless building made Aziraphale chuckle. He could imagine the demon walking up and seeing the empty soil in front of the inn with horror. There could be no greater tragedy, it wasn’t possible! A building in Paris without a garden! Without plants that Crowley could bully! Oh, what an affront to nature — nay — to God Himself!

 

Aziraphale found himself laughing quietly to himself at the thought of it all. Oh, that demon  _ tried  _ to appear hardened and cold, alright. But Aziraphale had never seen anyone care so much about the state of a garden. Crowley had come over to Aziraphale’s house every other day for two weeks just to tend to the garden. Aziraphale had reasoned that it was hardly worth it with the coming revolution, but Crowley had shaken his head and grimaced. He remembered exactly what Crowley had said.  _ When the world has gone to Hell, do you really want to be just any other man with a dead garden?  _

 

Aziraphale sighed, stretching his limbs. He considered, briefly, stretching his wings as well. He’d been thinking about the state of his feathers a great deal since that day on the roof when Crowley mentioned it. He’d meant to ask Crowley if perhaps he wouldn’t mind showing him just how to make each feather look so neat and tidy, but he’d been swept up in the moment.

 

He rubbed his face with a tired hand. Such blasphemous thoughts he’d had, that day. To dare defy God’s wishes — he shuddered. It was ineffable, he simply had to keep telling himself. The Wrath that radiated off the crowd had frozen him. He hadn’t known how to feel at all. Wrath. A sin. One of the seven, a horrible thing. But he wavered on his stance. Hadn’t these poor people  _ earned  _ a little wrath?

 

Aziraphale planted his feet on the floor as firmly as he could, and he leaned down. His plump fingers found the thing laces. He began to pull, wanting to undo his shoes and relax a bit for the night before he acted, when he heard something that made him freeze.

 

A smack. A cry. Yelling, sobbing, pounding on the floor with a broom handle.

 

Aziraphale flew*(17) down the stairs, his hair whipping behind him, taking the steps two at a time. The commotion, he deduced, was coming from the kitchen.

 

_ *(17) Not literally, of course. An angel could get in trouble showing his wings at a time like this. _

 

He opened the door silently. It was not that the door would not creak, but rather that Aziraphale had not been thinking it should, and so it simply did not.

 

The innkeeper stood in the kitchen, towering over a girl, younger than Ezekiel, cowering and sobbing on the floor.

 

“Stupid girl!” The innkeeper bellowed. “Stupid! We are low on food as it is, and you decide to take some for yourself, eh? You don’t care about the others here?”

 

The girl sobbed once more and shook her head frantically.

 

“I should throw you on the streets, you insolent brat!” The man raised his hand holding the broom in preparation to bring it down on the young girl’s head, and found his arm frozen in the air by another hand.

 

Aziraphale squeezed his fingers around the man’s wrist, his fingernails digging into skin. The girl had shut her eyes, waiting for the blow, but now she opened them and looked up to Aziraphale with red-rimmed eyes that poured tears as rampant as the rain outside. Aziraphale felt his heart thrum.

 

“Sir,” he said smoothly to the innkeeper, holding his grip tight. He was much stronger than he looked. “I would advise you strongly against the extortion of your employees.”

 

The man turned to look in Aziraphale’s eyes, his face pale with terror. “Release me,” he demanded, his voice a whimper.

 

“It does you no good to have all that wrath in your soul.”

 

The innkeeper shrieked, suddenly, and Aziraphale released his grip with a silent fury. The broom clattered to the floor. The man fell to his knees and cradled his wrist with his other hand, looking at it in horror.

 

“Y-you  _ burned _ me!”

 

“Why don’t you leave this place,” Aziraphale said, his voice measured and low. His friendly demeanor had vaporized. “It does no one here any good. You, my not-so-good sir, are the one who deserves to be out on the streets.”

 

“You cannot do this! This is my inn! You cannot barge in and say these things!”

 

Aziraphale usually held an ounce of pity for the hell-bound people he encountered. Usually, he had a moment where he considered the horrid fate of being damned to that wretched place below, and his heart ached in sympathy. It was only in an angel’s nature to hold remorse for one on the path to hell. For this man, however, he held none.

 

“Sweetheart,” he said to the little girl, and his words slipped past the innkeeper’s ears without a second thought of bouncing in. “Cover your ears now, if you may?”

 

The girl, terrified, nodded in stunned silence and clapped her hands over her ears. Aziraphale could be sure she wouldn’t hear it by his own choice, of course. It was merely a precaution. But one could never be too safe.

 

He turned to the innkeeper, whose rage had returned in an instant, and began yelling at Aziraphale. The angel tried to block out his words, and found it quite difficult.

 

“Oh,  _ do  _ be quiet, won’t you?”

 

The man opened his mouth to object, but found no words came. He glanced around, panicked, and grabbed his neck. He opened his mouth again, and again only silence. He pounded his fists against the floor, his mouth forming words that would not come. 

 

Aziraphale, finally able to focus, smiled. He opened his mouth and an ancient tongue spoke. He spoke a language never meant to be heard by the human ear. A language he had not spoken in centuries. Millenia, even. He spoke a single word, powerful and incomprehensible. As incomprehensible to the human ear as ultraviolet to the eye.

 

The man, in an instant, bubbled, and fought, and kicked. Then, in a second instant, he was not a wrathful innkeeper any longer. Instead, before Aziraphale, he was a wisp of smoke. Aziraphale stopped speaking, opened the kitchen window, and watched the smoke dissolve into the air outside.

 

The fire within Aziraphale died the moment the man had left the building*(18). He dropped carefully to his knees, turning to the little girl who eyed him with fear and wonder.

 

_ *(18) And when he ceased being a man, on that note. _

 

“You’re safe now,” he said, motioning for her to uncover her ears. “He will never hurt you again.”

 

She wiped her cheeks on her ragged sleeves. Snot ran down her nose and tears continued to well in her eyes.

 

“He’s gone?”

 

Her voice was fragile as a butterfly wing. It flew through the octaves as her lungs trembled.

 

“Forever,” Aziraphale said, soft.

 

He reached into his pocket, and from it pulled another handful of sparkling coins. He held them out to her, and watched her take each one with the wonder of a child seeing spring for the first time. From behind his back, another little miracle, Aziraphale pulled a fairly large pouch of the same coins. He set them on the table in the kitchen.

 

“Tell the others,” he said with a smile. “You’re all free from that horrible man now.”

 

He turned towards the door, his coat from upstairs jumping to appear on his shoulder. He slipped his arms in the sleeves and pulled it closed in front of him. He put his hand on the door, and halted when the girl called to him. 

 

“Are you my guardian angel?” She asked, her voice so curious, so hesitant, so quiet.

 

“What?”

 

“My mama says we have guardian angels. They protect us. They’ve got pretty halos. Are you...  _ my _ guardian angel?”

 

Aziraphale smiled, bittersweet. “I suppose you could say I am simply… the guardian angel of Paris. At the moment, at least.”

 

The girl’s smile widened and joyous tears welled in her little eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Your halo’s prettier than the paintings.”

 

He smiled at her wistfully as he opened the door. “So long, my dear.” The door closed behind him with a slow creak, and the rain thundered down upon the angel once again.

 

* * *

 

“I received a commendation from Hell today,” Crowley said, walking up behind the park bench and startling the angel sitting there.

 

Aziraphale put a hand to his chest and breathed heavily, regaining his senses. “Crowley,” he said with a huff. “You can’t sneak up on me like that, you old serpent.”

 

Crowley hummed with a grin and sat down on the bench next to Aziraphale. Their legs brushed, and Aziraphale scooted over to allow the demon some space to sit properly.

 

“Some sinner showed up today,” Crowley continued, ignoring the angel’s remark. “One of those really just despicable people.”

 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him. Crowley looked off into the distance, and by now Aziraphale knew he was clearly waiting for him to ask for further details.

 

“And?” Aziraphale said, a little tired but deciding to humor the demon. “You get despicable people every day. All the time.”

 

“Well, this guy was special because of  _ how he died _ .”

 

Crowley paused for dramatic effect, or at least, Aziraphale assumed that was why. He scrutinized his nails, picking at a cuticle with his other hand. He raised his pinky finger and picked something out of his teeth with it, glanced at it with disgust, and flicked it off his finger.

 

“Well?” Aziraphale prodded.

 

“Hm? Oh! Right. You’ll never believe it.” He grinned devilishly at Aziraphale. “Turned to smoke.”

 

Aziraphale’s face paled. “Oh. That is quite puzzling.”

 

“They told me ‘CROWLEY, YOUR WORK IS IMPRESSIVE. AN INTERESTING WAY TO KILL A MAN. WE LIKE IT.’ and I said ‘Thanks boss, it means a lot to me.’ But you know, the funniest thing is? I never killed a man by turning him to smoke.”

 

Aziraphale hummed and shrugged his shoulders, turning his head to look elsewhere at the flowers. He didn’t feel  _ guilty _ for what he did. And that’s precisely why, at the same time, he  _ did _ feel guilty. He had killed a man without hesitation, and he felt no remorse for taking a human life.  _ That  _ was the guilt that consumed his thoughts.

 

Crowley wore his peasant clothing now, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice the flower  _ still _ pinned firmly to Crowley’s lapel. It looked truly beautiful in the sunlight. The peony had shades of yellow that popped and brought out Crowley’s eyes. Aziraphale thought it looked quite magnificent. Light bounced off the raindrops on the leaves, but the peony remained soft and dry. He presumed Crowley had remained indoors to wait out the storm.

 

“Well, it certainly is a mystery then, hm?” Aziraphale said with a smile, trying to play it off as if he knew nothing.

 

Crowley nodded in a lackadaisical manner. “A  _ real _ mystery.” Sarcasm swam off his voice in waves.

 

“Spontaneous combustion!” Aziraphale said, a hair too fast. “That’s my bet.”

 

“Yesss, I suppose that could be it. Just seemed a bit too much like… oh, how would I put it.”

 

Crowley snapped his fingers.

 

“Divine retribution.”

 

He grinned at Aziraphale. The angel felt heat rise to his cheeks as embarrassment crept in.

 

“Ah, perhaps I… did, take a bit of… action.”

 

“That’s what I thought.”

 

The angel rolled his eyes and crossed his legs, looking over at Crowley crossly. He searched the demon’s face for any indication that he would be ridiculed for his action, but Crowley simply seemed slightly amused.

 

“He was a horrid man,” Aziraphale explained.

 

“I’m sure he was.”

 

“He deserved it!”

 

“I’m sure he did! I’m just surprised you’d do such a thing.”

 

“Oh, you would have too, if you’d been there.”

 

Crowley whistled through his teeth and reached forward to bat a fallen leaf off of Aziraphale’s shoulder. His wrist stopped and rested there, on the angel’s shoulder, and Aziraphale suddenly felt as though Crowley was quite closer than he had been. Crowley’s fingers moved a wayward ringlet behind Aziraphale’s ear, and Aziraphale felt his breath falter for a moment.

 

Then the demon took his hand away, and he lifted his leg to flick a bug off his shoe. The little thing went flying off into the grass, and the color returned to Aziraphale’s face.

 

“Really, my dear,” he murmured.

 

“Sorry,” Crowley said with a grin. “Just a bug.”

 

Soft sunlight peered through the last stragglers of the storm clouds, piercing the curtain of gloom that had draped over Paris in the last few days. An angel and a demon sat together on a bench in a garden, shooting each other sidelong glances, settling on a strange feeling that neither quite knew what to make of. 


End file.
